The Royal Progress
by babyb26
Summary: Synopsis: When Pocahontas tries to escape the love triangle between her head and her heart by traveling with the king and queen on their royal progress. What could go wrong? What happens when a mysterious stranger claims her as his Queen of Love and Beauty? Can one dance alter a seemingly unhappy future? A wee bit supernatural. Dedicated to SunRise19 and HC247 Rating T-M


_Synopsis: When Pocahontas tries to escape the love triangle between her head and her heart by traveling with the king and queen on their royal progress. What could go wrong? What happens when a mysterious stranger claims her as his Queen of Love and Beauty? Can one dance alter a seemingly unhappy future? _A wee bit supernatural.

Thanks, SunRise19 and HC247 for pushing me to finish this! Thornfield & Lahiwe, I think the world of your writing please come back and write! Forgive me all for my rustiness!

This is story 3 of a 5-part anthology series of what I call fluff-smex stories, yes stories that are one-part fluff and sexiness. Warning there might be AU's, time travels, new ladies, and/or some interesting prompt-based stories. Some stories may come in multiple installments. So, hang onto your hat's ladies and gents!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but any original characters and concepts that may or may not show up in this anthology.

Rated T - M for mature situations (tastefully done mind you, but not for the overtly shy. Turn back now, you have been soundly warned).

Remember to review, even anonymously. Yeah, I know yall reading and not reviewing! I ask for constructive criticisms and not flames based on the "twisting" of historical facts, as I am in real life an Early American History professor because I know it. But I like fanfiction and as this is not a historical journal, I can do what I want. Enjoy!

_The Royal Progress_

_By_

_Babyb26_

The carriage creaked and rocked side to side on the small winding road as they made the midsummer progress. To her, all the English countryside looked the same, mostly, yet the companions in her carriage told her they had already crossed through Kent, Sussex, East Anglia, Sheffield, and traveled further westward. Wiping at the sweat that laced her dark amber-colored brow, she counted herself among the lucky few to ride within the entourage of royal carriages during the high English Summer. Hundreds of other courtiers followed the retinue on horseback and on foot. Pocahontas' new status as a "lady" in the court of King James I of England had already brought her new adventures, headaches, and heartaches. However, at least this progress temporarily alleviated one of the more pressing matters of her head and heart. Surrounded by gossiping English women to her left and right, she longed for the comforts of the next noble house that the main courtiers would shortly reside. In another few hours, she would dine, possibly dance, and discover the hidden wilderness of the English East Midlands.

She was grateful to be among the women and very far away from Rolfe, although she missed the gentle hands and kind words of the serving woman Mrs. Jenkins. Just thinking of John Rolfe sent her small brown hand to massage her temples. After their- her, Rolfe's, and John Smith's joint effort to stop the royal English Navy from attacking her people, John Rolfe had been insistent that they should marry. Yet, after speaking with Queen Anne of her ambivalent feelings of not wanting to rush into a marriage and as of yet not having the blessing of her sovereign father- Powhatan; Rolfe's request for a marriage contract was placed on hold. Gratefully, the hold was done without his knowledge. Although Rolfe was a gentleman, devout to his king and faith, and honorable, he had yet to move her heart or desires. Pocahontas did, very much, care for Rolfe. Thinking upon that other ache, that of her heart, sent a wave of disquiet throughout her whole body. She was reminded, from overheard gossip, that she was also sitting near one of the lovers of John Smith, whether in the past or newly minted Pocahontas knew not.

They, she and John Smith had parted amicably, reassured that although they no longer shared the same path, she would always be with him. The more she ingrained herself into this new world of English culture and aristocracy she had to admit to herself that she no longer knew where her path was headed, nor who this new woman was that had gradually become a self she could not recognize. For his part, John Smith had not argued with her, no protest had fallen from his lips, only his sincere wishes for her happiness. She sensed the raw pain that had momentarily passed over his handsome face, unfiltered for a heartbeat. The winter blue depths of his eyes gaze bored deeply into her. Then, he hid her refusal well, as if he had suffered a much greater pain, this she somehow knew in her bones was true. They had only seen each other in passing; a nod here and there or the slight feeling of being watched only to turn and see his eyes upon her as she was presented around the court on Rolfe's arm. His eyes held no malice for her, only an unnamed sentiment that she perceptively knew was for her alone. Thankfully, John Smith had disappeared from court life like the specter he had been thought to be. She no longer wanted to dwell on the intuitive ability of her heart and turned again to listen to conversations of the women surrounding her.

The afternoon was edging closer and closer tonight and while the great noble Tattershall Castle could accommodate the glittering throng of the king, queen, and prince's apartments; it could not hold the lesser nobility and Pocahontas and all the others in the second tier would be carried to the next estate more remote and deeper into the countryside. Like the royal entourage, they would be greeted with a regal, if not a slightly lesser, welcoming midsummer feast and ball.

The women spoke around her, going over the rules and decorum that dictated a royal pilgrimage and the unofficial mandates that underlay the royal household of Queen Anne. While away from the queen they, unlike her waiting women, were under no regulations of revelry, gambling, or chastity. For all purposes, they were free, free as much as their gilded cages, over laced corsets, and personal marriage contracts allowed. From the women's gossip, she discerned that most of the women had either planned on meeting lovers or were afraid of running into their husbands' lovers; the queen herself already traveled with her lover and the king never strayed far from his- George Villiers, the First Duke of Buckingham. While such inclinations of lovers, merriment, and decadence were certainly found in her father's federation; Pocahontas could not fathom the ease in which the women plotted, that was until she realized their unhappiness in their contracted and loveless marriages. Was that not what she herself was running from? While Pocahontas herself was momentarily free of their fate, she had been close with Kocoum and now, with ever-increasing pressures, ever closer to marriage with John Rolfe.

The queen herself had recommended lovers to her, when she had found out about her disquiet of John Rolfe. She had thanked Queen Anne for her advice, yet the queen had insisted that if it was her fate to contract marry an Englishman, then she had better find a lover for her own happiness or yet keep the one she had already had. Pocahontas had denied the rumor that John Smith was, at the present, her lover. Pocahontas tried explaining to the queen that she and Smith had once loved each other in the ways of the heart and mind, yet not in the sense of the body; with the exceptions, of course, being stolen kisses, warm caresses, and an unveiling one warm summer midnight. The queen quietly sat and listened, her face serene and knowing. After a moment the queen rose, the velvet trail of her dress silently following its mistress to the door of Pocahontas' chamber when the older woman turned and said,

"Your love is like a tale for the bards. Yet, if you chose to, it could be your reality in an unhappy inevitability."

Pocahontas was lost for words, nevertheless, the queen held her gaze reading the obsidian depths.

The queen nodded her farewell and divulged a veiled truth that Pocahontas would never question of her.

"John Smith is an excellent lover my dear, this I think you should know." Whether in the past or new, Pocahontas knew not.

The sun had hidden its face by the time they had reached the castle grounds. The noblewomen said it was built by the people called the Romans and the grounds known as Lincoln Castle. Dark shadows of trees glowed bright orange in the night landscape, lit by the fires of a thousand torches, bonfires, and the bright ghostly pallor of a low hanging moon. As Pocahontas descended the carriage steps and made connection to the earth, a rush of pure heat ran up her spine. She felt a freedom, a warmth, an enrapture that called to her. Perhaps it was the warmth of the night or the shadows cast by the moving trees, or maybe it is what the noblewomen and the queen would call the ancient magic of their kings and queens of old. What Pocahontas did know, was that something beyond the glow of the fires lighting the outdoor feast drew her toward the outline of a path that led into the darkness of the wood.

The Midsummer revelry had begun before all the travelers could descend from the carriages. Masked men and women swirled around each other on the earthen dance floor, others burned hay stag figures in a roaring red bonfire, and others laced themselves between each other, as they seemingly dressed an ancient tree with colorful ribbons. Pocahontas sat content marveling at the unleashed energy of her fellow guest and the wild wooded backdrop. A frail hand landed on her shoulder and Pocahontas looked up in surprise to see an aged dowager duchess. The old woman was kind and had become a protector of sorts to her in the court. Duchess Redwyne sat across Pocahontas and greeted her.

"My dear this must be so strange to you," the old woman's fragile voice was barely audible over the laughter and merriment of the throng of people surrounding them.

"Yes, it is all so very different," Pocahontas remarked while nodding to show her agreement in the chatter.

"Why have you not danced yet? There are so many men that would delight in your company, you are still a young woman."

Pocahontas gave the duchess a small smile and answered, "If only I had the vigor and knew the purposes of such happiness, your grace."

"Did the women in your carriage not discuss the meanings of this revelry?"

"No, your grace," Pocahontas stated slightly uncomfortably admitting her unfamiliarity.

The duchess took hold of her amber-brown hand in comfort and said,

"Tonight, was when our ancestors during Midsummer enjoyed the fruits of their harvest in merriment, gave offerings to the gods of their harvest, and most of all gave life back to land in suitable gifts of fertility. Our ancient foremothers gathered, and a warrior was then made King of the Harvest or the King Stag as you see the figures alight. As you may imagine, he, the womenfolk, and other lovers delighted in the night. This was the one night where one was free from all bonds to give life back, of sorts, to the land."

Pocahontas understood the rights in which the English called ancient, her people performed similar offerings and for the very same reasons. Once explained, the strangeness of the party around her suddenly went away and she recognized the warm echoing coming from the earth. Even here in the Old World, Ahone - the Great Spirit, could be felt.

"My people, we have similar beliefs to your people of old," Pocahontas words drew a smile to the old woman's face.

"Then my dear you must be young and go partake in the evening, be free my dear! I certainly would with the handsome man yonder, if I could put some snap in these old bones."

Pocahontas turned and there was a man strong of build, tall in height, and a wide breadth of shoulders that let one know that he was well-formed beneath the moonlight and glow of the bonfires. She could not see his face, for it was hidden by a tanned and beaded pelt with the horns of a stag. He danced gracefully, moving effortlessly through the groups of people, from one partner to the next, stepping in time to the swells of the music played around them. Somehow, he reminded her of home.

"Who is he?" Pocahontas' question hung in the air as she turned back to her older friend, who had in a matter of moments pulled a deck of teller cards from her sewn pockets that lay tied and hidden about the old woman's waist. Pocahontas had been told that in the old queen's reign, the cards had been forbidden, but in the court of King James, many things can be ignored if done discreetly. Since neither sovereign was around, such liberties could be had. The old woman's hands moved to separate the cards when she answered.

"He is our version of the Harvest King, the King Stag my dear heart," her voice said absent-mindedly, too busy looking over the cards in front of her.

"What did he do to deserve such an honor?" Pocahontas asked intrigued and picking up a glass of spiced wine.

"Oh, anything my dear. He could have saved someone or many people or just been handsome enough to convince the people of this township that he was worthy of the title, or perhaps he had an ancient family claim to it… or…." The old woman paused, "Just be a person of honor to this township, it's usually given as a token of honor. Whoever he is, he must have done something worthy or just be that devilishly handsome. An old lady could hope for both my dear."

They both laughed at the amusement of the old duchess. Finished with her hand, the duchess moved to collect her cards when a sudden night breeze lifted a single card into the air. In the electric air, the card rose high, glinting bright orange when it caught the firelight and floated to lie upon the ground near the outer ring of the dancing circle. Pocahontas' gaze moved to the ground and made ready to gather back the wayward card for the duchess. Before she could gather her skirts to move, another had found the card and began making their way, rather his way, toward them. Pocahontas' eyes took him in as they had earlier, only closer he towered over her seated form. The decorated horned covering hid is face entirely, only slit openings in the soft deer hide revealed his eyes and they shined in the dim glow of the light. His hand reached out and placed something on the carved knobs of her chair and laid the card onto the table in front of her, the card slid across the satin tablecloth to the old duchess. Their eyes locked, it felt like a thousand years, but in a moment he nodded his head low to her and the old woman in a sign of regard and moved off just as silently as he had come. The old woman laughed lightly at the bewildered look on Pocahontas' face. The duchess laughed harder when she looked upon the card sitting between her and the native woman.

"Yes, he certainly must be a handsome devil," the duchess exclaimed.

"What do you mean your grace? We couldn't even see his face?" Confusion marred Pocahontas' face.

"My dear, only a good-looking man could be that assured of his boldness," laughter laced the old woman's voice.

Pocahontas went to answer her, but was cut off by the duchess, "Oh and with the flower crown now decorating your chair, he has acclaimed you his queen."

Pocahontas paled, as if such a thing could be seen underneath the layers of white powder that decorated her face, and her heartbeat a little faster caged within her tight corset.

"Why would he do such a thing? What does this mean? Why…why me?" Her voice held alarm.

Duchess Redwyne could see the distress she brought to the younger woman and searched for words to calm her.

"My dear child, take heart. The Queen of Love and Beauty just shares the night's honor, nothing terrible. I promise you, it's far far far from it."

The older woman's hand reached across the table and took the younger woman's hand in reassurance.

"I believe he mayhap finds you as endearing and as beautiful as I do. Besides my dear, the card that landed in the firelight says you both shall be lovers."

Pocahontas eyes few to the table between the two women and the card that lay upon it. Two unclothed figures entwined in an embrace graced the top of the card. Yes, the card certainly showed lovers.

"My last pull was for you dear, but the wind…the night… it chose it for you," the duchess spoke.

"What do I do my lady?" Pocahontas asked calmness overcame her and her heart, she could feel the night's energy hum through her. Ahone was speaking to her through this land, fire, and the wind that chose the card that lay in front of her.

"Follow your heart, my dear. Take the flowered crown and be his Queen of Love and Beauty in a dance at least. Besides, your court and he await you," the duchess whispered to her.

Pocahontas turned to find that the people within the dancing ring were looking toward her and in its center the King of the Harvest patiently awaited. Gathering her wits, the flower crown, and her skirts she stood. Her hands slightly trembled as she placed the crown of blue, yellow, red, and white flowers upon her head. Taking a steadying breath, she walked toward the orange glow of the dancing circle. As she passed into the ring the men and women of the revelry bowed to her, it seemed that at this moment she, in the old ways, was their queen.

As she approached the center, the king stag, reached out a hand to her and she stopped just short of it. Again, she gazed into the depths of his eyes, they were kind and held a crystalline light. A soft breeze passed through the ring and pushed her forward, her hand lifted almost of its own accord and met his. At their touch, heat flared across her skin and danced down her spine awakening her. She could hear the music for the dance strike up around her, but as she was pulled into his embrace nothing else seemed to matter. With one arm wound comfortably around her waist and the other arm raised with her hand in his, they glided across the makeshift dance floor.

Back and forth, around and to the sides, she moved with him, matched him step for step as if she could read his mind. Her eyes never left his, the more they danced the more his eyes seemed to glow in the firelight. His arm tightened around her, bringing her ever closer to him, so close that the thick beating of his heartbeat could be felt through her gown and she unconsciously relaxed against him. She swore he felt like home, even his sent-some blend of sandalwood and pine- brought forth memories of her homeland. His hold was firm and yet gentle, his hand in hers felt right. They danced through three songs together; each one bringing them closer and closer, until she felt like the heat of the fire had melded them into one flesh. Truth be told she had missed being held this way, only one man truly had. Rolfe's barely their hold, and touches showed his restrain, reservation, and reverence for decorum. Duchess Redwyne was right, the man whose arms she was now in was certainly bold, unrestrained, and possibly roguish. However, by the heat in her body and the aliveness she felt, which echoed to the woman she had hidden so well, _she_ could overlook his forwardness. Then the church bells tolled, and it shattered through all the music, magic, and their building fire.

As everyone stilled to let time pass by, she was reluctant to let him go. At that moment, in his arms, she never wanted to leave and by the coiled muscles of his arms, she could tell that he too did not want to release her. Slowly, he leaned his covered face near hers and her heart stilled at the anticipation of his words, but he made no utterance. The people around them began to move off in differing directions and she was released from his hold. She turned to leave, to retire to the lodgings prepared for her when his hand and bright eyes roamed around her fingertips. She was rooted to the middle of the dance floor. He studied her hand like it had been dipped in gold and slowly he bowed and brought her hand underneath the long fall of beads of his head covering. She began to tremble as the tips of her hand made contact with his lips. The kiss was soft as rose petals and his lips lingered upon them. It was his warm breath passing over her fingertips that made her heart constrict. Lovers the card had read. She needed to leave, this heat between them was too much and she still did not know this man, whom it seemed, didn't mind tossing decorum to the wind. Did he not know who she was? She pulled away suddenly and searched for a path toward the main house. She passed by men and women; some coupled off while others talked, drank, and danced in the firelight.

The dark night closed in quickly as Pocahontas moved further from the light. The woods grew denser on the path she found, yet she could still hear the sound of revelry. Laughter brought her head up from the worn path; it was the laughter of a woman. There must have been people ahead walking back toward the manor house. In the distance, Pocahontas spotted a pale flash of light, a pale skirt or the pale reflection of a lantern. Wanting to catch up with them she moved as fast as she could through the brush, avoiding branches and spider webs as best she could. Pocahontas followed the paleness that seemed to go in and out of focus, and the ground grew softer, wetter. She stopped, realizing that the laughter had ceased, there was no illumination to be found, no path, and the ground beneath her seemed to melt away taking her with it. She tried pulling her heeled feet from the muck but the harder she fought the deeper she sank and once her dress, underskirts, petticoats, and other layers became wet the harder it was for her to move at all. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest, she tried pulling, shouting, and praying yet to no avail.

Once the cold water soaked through her layers she shivered and grew weaker in the effort against the bog. Her bones began to ache in the cold mud and water; her strained and tired eyes grew dimmer. She used her last bits of energy to let her head and an arm float above the heavy muck. She recalled making one last outcry before falling into the still abyss of letting her body drift toward the blessed hunting-grounds of her people, it seemed that even her soul was at odds with her newly created self. Ever stubborn, Pocahontas determined she would not linger and let go when her body reached the point beyond numbness and tiredness. Her eyes closed to the darkness and the false light that had guided her here. She heard one last laugh that echoed over the mud and water as she faded. Yet while she was somewhere in-between the engulfing of the fade and the great beyond, her body was pulled from the dark waters.

_A cold ache, stillness, warmth, an enfolding, the awakening. _

The loud pop and hiss of a roaring fire awoke her. She took in the room in a blurry view. She lay across a hard-seasoned oak floor and she could feel the groves of the ancient wood push against her cheek. She tried lifting her head and a flood of pain washed over her body, warm hands moved her back down and she didn't fight them as she drifted back into the stillness. She awoke again, this time her eyes were sensitive, and the bright blaze of the fire made her quickly shut her eyes back closed. However, as she drifted back into the darkness this time she could feel that her body was no longer numb and that she was wrapped warmly in the embrace of another. She dreamed this time and it was her heart that took the lead.

Sunflower fields surrounded them, and she could smell the last scent of the fading summer in the air. Of their own accord, her arms tightened around John Smith as they lay in the grass. In their adventure she had accidentally fallen on him and yet he lay beneath her content to hold her close. Their eyes met, his had bored into hers, reading the secret depths of her being. "Penney for your thoughts?" She felt and heard his question. His calloused hand had caressed the side of her face, his thumb passing over the expanse of her cheek and down to the soft outline of her lips. She contemplated letting him know just how much he had tapped into the space called her heart. She had felt so much that they had fit, like the rain meeting the rise of a river, joining seamlessly as one. She had not known John Smith so much, as felt guided to and made part of his flesh. She too was reborn into an understanding that she never knew she could know. They had made a bridged against the currents of their individual worlds that had once separated them. Now she knew, she felt that he too was reborn and that his heart thundered to hers. She did not want to give him her thoughts, she wanted to give him a part of her soul. Slowly her head leaned forward and down, her hand moving to the side of his cheek to steady her. She would start with a kiss and once her soft lips met his cupid bows the known world in which she had resided completely shook away.

A great intake of air echoed throughout the wooden structure. Pocahontas woke with a gasp and threw back the layers that covered over her body. Just the thought of John Smith's lips connecting to hers, just the feeling of his arms enfolded over her, just the simple remembrance of their time together had the power to breathe life back into her. She shook as she realized she was no longer on the wooden floor but on a highly carved wooden and panel bed with the softest stuffed down mattress she ever lay upon. She was alive, safe, and warm. Her eyes adjusted to the light coming from the red-orange fire. For the first time since she sank into the watery muck of the bog, did she see clearly.

The room was spartan except for the large carved bed, a few pieces of fine furniture, the fireplace, and a large traveling trunk located near the door and windows of the cottage. She slowly was able to turn onto her side and then lifted up. After a few tries, Pocahontas was able to swing her legs over the side of the bed, they moved. Then she remembered, she had not been alone. Turning quickly, she scanned the other side of the bed and room for the other life. She was alone, yet the cottage had held life, she had been held, she had been brought back to life. Who? Then something lying upon the trunk caught her eyes. The soft tanned hide and beadwork sparked in the moonlight coming in from the windows, the antlers looming larger in the shadows cast from the fire. Twas _he_, the horned one, the king to her queen, he had saved her. The realization caused a quiver to flow through her body. She was both grateful and uneasy of the revelation. Who was _he_? What would she say to him? Why did _he _choose her? Why and how did _he _save her? Too many questions flooded her mind, too much at once. She lay back down. Whoever he was would soon be revealed and she then would then have her answers. She drifted back to sleep.

The creak and closing of the door brought her out of the light sleep she had drifted into. Her eyes remained closed, she couldn't pretend to be asleep forever, but she wasn't quite ready to know the face of her rescuer and dancing partner. Her body must have tensed because the next thing she heard was the clearing of a throat. She knew then, he must have known that she lay awake. There was no use in pretending any longer. She let her eyes slowly open, never did she fathom that _he_ would be standing in front of her.

She shook her head, closed and reopened her eyes. No, the same image remained, _him_ standing calmly at the door and staring right back at her. How was this even possible? How could _he_ have...?

"Good, you've awakened…I was beginning to worry." Nodding at her all the while _he_ spoke.

Her heartbeat a thousand times and her voice seemed a trapped thing. What could she say, what was she supposed to say? Worry for her? He sat something down upon an oak table, a burlap sack. As he moved toward a chair at the table, the velvet sheen of his deep wine-colored doublet caught the firelight and for a moment John Smith seemed to glow. He sat heavily down into the wooden chair, it creaking from his weight into the night, one calloused hand and muscled arm lay upon the table and the other he brought to his throat unbuttoning the snug-fitting jacket.

"I suppose the least you could say is thank you."

The words were not as harsh as they seemed, a slight smirk graced his handsome face, his pale blue eyes were warm. John Smith knew that he had shocked her, but he was right, she was being rude. She had to say something; she owed him at least a thank you and it would cost her pride nothing.

"Thank you, John Smith, thank you for rescuing me from an early watery grave," she said with as much warmth and gratitude as she could muster. She was truly grateful to him and she hoped it shown in her dark eyes.

"It seems I have an innate talent for pulling friends from watery depths, just ask Thomas," John Smith removed the jacket and laughed at the memory of saving his young friend who had become like a brother. She laughed lightly agreeing. Thomas in his youth was a bit accident-prone, even when he visited the village, she was always helping him up from the ground it seemed.

"Thomas told me the story once. About the storm and you pulling him from the black waters. That certainly was very brave of you, saving him and me. We certainly appreciate it." She felt light, the conversation was easy, them both ignoring the obvious but for how long she knew not.

John Smith nodded back, a light smile on his face "Of course, I am sure you all would do the same for me. It was my duty; you are my Midsummer's Queen after all!"

And just like that, an unspoken tension was back in the air. She figured that the Gods would not let her be content with them keeping up this light charade.

"In speaking of that…why did you…how did you…" Her question broke off, exasperated at which question she wanted to be answered first.

"Did you want me to leave you to die in an English bog?" His voice held shock and confusion; he did not expect his life-saving action to be questioned.

"No, that is not what I meant."

Not having heard her soft words he continued, "I will have you know that I ruined a perfectly good clothing ensemble… oh, no matter. By the way, how did you end up in a bog, let alone so far from the gathering?" Curiosity laced his deep voice; he could not help wondering how she had come so close to death.

He stood, removing the deeply colored tailored jacket, it falling off his broad shoulders like water. The finely woven linen shirt he wore did little to hide the ripple of his muscle as he moved. Leaning over the fire, to warm his hands and body, John Smith waited on her answer. Pocahontas sat up in the comfortable bed. She would answer truthfully this night, what was the point of hiding herself when the spirits seemed afoot and he seemed to know all anyway.

"I followed the light from the guest ahead of me," She certainly had done the most logical thing, the smart thing, yet it had almost ended in calamity.

"Where I found you, you were very far from the feast. There wasn't any reason for guests to be that far out." A puzzled look crossed his face and his voice held confusion.

"Well there were certainly people out there, there was laughter in the distance, it wasn't like I was following a ghost." Pocahontas swept her hand in a delicate arc as she explained herself. She was confused as well and still slightly annoyed at the night's turn of events.

"Tell me this, did the lights move rapidly? Seem to quickly be in once place and then another, then dim and then brighten at will?"

"Yes…" Pocahontas didn't know to what end he was leading.

Then John Smith laughed at her, not just laughed, but a full throaty sound that she did not appreciate one bit.

"Why are you so amused? I followed the path and the lights from the held lanterns like any sane person would!" Her eyes narrowed at him and her words held a bit of bite.

John Smith sensed her irritation, he too bristled when he wasn't in on a jest. He schooled his face and moved from the fire to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Tonight, you saw the Will-o'-the-wisp, they are a part of this landscape and are seen by travelers at night, especially in bogs like this one." His voice was open and had softened.

"What do you mean? What is a Will-o'-the-wisp?" Her voice softened as well.

"The flickering lamps that you thought you saw and then receded into the night when approached, are called the Will-o'-the-wisp. They are phantom lights that draw travelers from their safe paths and into the bogs, usually to someone's demise. Tonight, they for some strange reason chose you."

What he was saying was impossible. Did John Smith even realize what he was saying? Specter lights? No, perhaps he was drunk or had lost his mind? Pocahontas internally dismissed Smith's incredible explanation.

"Do you realize what you just said, John Smith? That I followed ghostly lightings on a path? That's impossible," Pocahontas couldn't contain the annoyance laced within her voice as she shook her head.

"I am not some child that is easily fooled," Pocahontas stated.

"I realize you are no child," John Smith replied yet the mirth never left his eyes.

"Allow me to ask you, was it impossible when we both talked to Grandmother Willow? She was a tree spirit correct?"

"Yes, John Smith she is but…"

"Everything has a spirit. Is that not true? You taught me that."

She had taught him that. John Smith was unusually open and good-humored considering the fact they were debating the existence of otherworldly beings. She conceded that he was correct about Grandmother Willow and the beliefs of her people, which she had taught him herself.

Why she thought was she dismissing these Will-o'-the-wisp, the night had started off strangely anyhow. A gust of wind moved through the room and the chill in the air sent a shiver down her spine. His silvery blue eyes watched her silently, but they observed her every move. He moved to hand her another blanket that lay over the foot of the bed where he sat. She couldn't help it, she had to know.

"Why John Smith?" Pocahontas knew that within her simple question lay a thousand others.

Smith straightened and leaned his bent body back, his side brushing against the brown blanket that covered her. His eyes locked to hers.

"Tell me what you are really asking and I will answer?" His voice had lowered to match the tenor of the cracking fire and held a low heat.

"You already know what I mean. Do I really have to explain it?" Her own defiance in answering questions seemed to rise and chase against his.

"Because you needed saving." He said, as his wide shoulders rolled in a loose shrug.

"What do you mean needing saving?" She was irritated, she wasn't broken. It was her turn to clear her throat as she knew very well what he meant, and the woman was more than rattled at his words.

"I realize I needed saving from the bog. I thank you for that. I hope to never go through such an ordeal again! Have, you, have you ever been in a bog?" Pocahontas stopped and swallowed hard. She expected him to laugh at her ramblings, yet his calm expression never wavered.

"I wasn't you know… It was a mistake... Going to that place... It was an accident… I made a dreadful mistake."

"What was a mistake?"

"You know... The bog and lights and…"

"Anything else?"

The native woman shook her head, "N-nothing... Could I please have a drink of something?"

An arched blond eyebrow was his reply, yet John Smith slowly moved away from her. Pocahontas watched as he crossed the room, her dark eyes following his form as he retrieved a cup from the table.

"I can make a fresh pot of tea if you like," his warm voice floated to her ears and she could not help a smile.

"No, it is fine."

His pale hand brushed hers as he handed her the cup.

"Thank you once again," she said before she took a sip, "You do not put honey in your tea?"

Again, his shoulder lifted in a half shrug as silence fell again between them.

"Thank you," Pocahontas spoke as she handed him the empty cup, "I appreciate you. I thank you for…"

"What was a mistake?"

"Nothing."

She replied as he placed the cup back down on the table and moved by her side once more.

"Are you absolutely sure about that?" The hand that lay closest to her reached forward and touched her hand.

"Have you not locked who you were away… to survive or make it easier for your people?"

She had and it bothered her that John Smith somehow knew. Even though she had resolved not to hide anything this night it was still difficult for her to relinquish all.

He continued, "And you absolutely happened to need a bit of saving tonight in the bog. The real answer you are wanting is simple, really, I still want you."

Pocahontas' heart speed and her words seemed trapped in her chest.

"The crown… but why?" She managed upon a whisper.

"I wanted you as mine… so that they would know…"

Another whispered question, "Who?"

"All of them," he replied, "Every single person there. The reason I..."

John Smith's words had turned as puzzling as hers. Pocahontas' heart froze at his words that he still desired her and wanted her to be his.

"When I saw you at the feast tonight…"

His fingers moved over her skin like they were made of silk and like earlier, he lifted her hand once again and pressed a heated kiss to their tips. His energy rippled through her, making her gasp at the intensity of his touch.

"How could I ignore what we once meant to one another? I have struggled to let you go, Pocahontas… I wanted you to be happy that day on the balcony, I truly did, but I couldn't…my feelings… my love for you… it was not so easily burned away. God knows I tried." He felt exhausted by his words, as one handheld onto hers and the other ran through his pale hair.

John Smith's confession had broken him somehow.

_No_, she thought. _I have broken him_.

He thought her love for him had been washed away, like a springtime flood. He did not know. In her running, in her acceptance of Rolfe, and in her courtly guise she had broken a man whose heart still called to hers and had fractured her own sense of being. They were broken and it was mostly her doing.

"Is that why you did not say much to me on the balcony? You wanted me to be happy?"

John Smith nodded.

"I thought the ship would make you happy. In a span of seconds, I fantasized of us going to your homeland, to different places, I saw myself showing you the beautiful places I have gone and taking you wherever you would wish to go. When you said no, I just... I thought that…"

"That I did not care," Pocahontas said in a hushed voice. "I suppose I just thought that your ship meant more to you, I knew how joyous it made you... I should have considered all you have gone through and…"

"Pocahontas," and her heart leapt as he said her name, his voice melodic on the vowels.

"You could not have known all that has happened. I, we… we should have spoken more to one another."

The woman gazed on as his blue eyes lowered to study their joined hands before she spoke, "I know my status is the only thing of mine that means anything to Rolfe. And you… when you have done so much for me... So much that words cannot convey..."

"I know your rank is not the only thing that means anything to him. I claim not to know Rolfe's mind, but he would be a fool to not see all that you are worth… and here I sit, the one who was foolish enough to let you walk away from that balcony in the first place."

"You…"

"No Pocahontas, then…there on that balcony, that was pure foolishness. I could have spoken the words of my heart, of my regard… of the love, I have always had of you. I should have made known to you the desires of my heart."

She had always known. In the gentle strength of his hold, in the way, he caressed her coal-black hair away from her face, and the way his heart had beat in time to her own. She had known. He had loved her then and ever still. Yet, like a splinter in her soul, she had hidden herself and more prominently the love she too still held for him. _How had they been able to hide love in the shadows this long?_

She began to ponder that upon this mysterious night, it seemed, the Great Spirit wanted the sentiments of their hearts be made alight. The confession would be hard for her to make, but she owed it to him. With her heart beating her breathless, she reached for him. She raised an amber hand and stroked the pale cheek she held. His skin was smooth to the touch and in the contrasting fire and moonlight, he was awash in a pale warm glow.

"I never hid much of myself before coming here to your homeland John Smith, but since doing so, I have lied much; to others, myself, and to you."

He tried to protest but her soft fingertips over his mouth stilled his words and he listened.

"No, John Smith I have. I have made sacrifices that I thought were the best for my people and have broken you and myself in the course of trying to hide my heart."

As flickers from the fire shadowed across the room, John Smith could see the fall of tears that slowly began to course down her face.

"But I can't… I can't hide myself or my heart anymore… I have never not cared for you…" A sob broke through her words. Smith's warm hands gently cupped the sides of her face in the moonlight shadows.

"Great Spirit forgive me for hiding it… know now John Smith that my heart still thunders to yours; it always has."

"Pocahontas…" her name trailed hesitantly from his mouth.

Whatever he wanted to say was leaving him speechless, something she never thought that he could be, and it was all because of her. Her eyes closed to him in shame. She felt his calloused hands move from her face and clutch around her form. From the closeness, she could feel their hearts beating in time. His whispered words were soft in her ear.

"I am no king or lord nor ambassador, just a man, … a man that is still yours, if you will have me." A shiver ran up her spine at his words and she opened her eyes to his. At the bright shine in her eyes, he brought her ever closer and their mouths met in a fiery kiss.

He was a man starved, starved of the gentle waters of her spirit. The feel of her in his arms was a miracle to him, something impossible like smelling Jasmin blossoms in the desert or the feeling of blinding heat in a blizzard. Whatever otherworldly forces had brought them to this moment, coupled with his foolish hope, he truly thanked them. His large hands traced downwards from her narrow waist to trail along her rounded hips and their exploration brought a soft gasp from her. Their heated kiss broke and both were breathless.

John Smith wanted more than anything to watch her head to fall back as he would kiss down her throat and skim his calloused hands up her thighs, and under the thin shift, she wore, which he was able to save from the muck of the bog. He was even sure she would whisper his name in a voice so soft, and dare he think it, so full of desire that he would take her right then and there. But he didn't. If he lay with her, he wanted it to be something she desired just as much as he. And that was why his heart stopped beating. Because when he stopped moving, stopped touching her, she opened her eyes and looked straight at him.

He saw longing yet it was undercut by weariness, she was still tired yet. John Smith cleared his throat and pulled back, perhaps he too was a little weary and perhaps still a little afraid for her to take full possession of his heart. A very small voice in the back of his head warned him that she would only break it again. It took him two tries, but finally, he was able to speak,

"You need to rest."

Her hand trembled where it lay wrapped around his neck. She made to speak but instead, he cupped her face gently in the palm of his hands and brought her forehead to his, their breaths mangled.

"You need to rest," he repeated himself.

She acquiesced to his soft command and he helped tuck her back into the warm comfort of the bed. As he turned to leave, her small hand reached out and clasped his.

"Where will you be… if I need you?" Her voice was full of unspoken words.

"I won't be far, just in the room yonder. It has a wooden soaking tub and I need to get water to wash off. Once I got you settled and cleaned up, I threw on these clothes to go fetch some items, but I didn't get a chance to wash off the grime from the bog."

She nodded her understanding and squeezed his hand. Releasing him, John Smith moved off into the darkness of the next room. She lay facing the crackling fire and let her mind drift.

_A remembrance, whispers in the night, want, the re-awakening._

The night was nearly moonless and warm as they sat near the slow stream of the glade. Earlier in the day, he had begun to teach her how to read the words of his language and she had taught him more words in hers. Now they sat quietly, she wrapped in his arms and he placing kisses so lightly upon her neck that she wouldn't know if it was actually he or the landing of butterflies upon her skin. Either way, a warm tingle radiated throughout her body. John Smith's whispered words broke the stillness of the night and vibrated across her skin.

"I have to go."

She did not want him to leave, she wanted to stay cocooned in his arms forever. Pocahontas turned in his arms and searched for his pale face in the dim moonlight.

"Stay," her voice was laced with pleading and she leaned upon the broadness of his smooth chest that peaked through the opening of his gray linen shirt. Never had one word meant so much to him. His hand that was not wrapped around her, palmed the side of her face and raised it toward him. He leaned down and his forehead met hers, his lips were less than a breath from hers and he was sure she could taste his words.

"I always will, if it's within my power to do so. But tonight, I have midnight sentry duty at the fort and my men would notice me gone."

"Stay a while longer then," a bright smile made it's away across her face as she caressed his. John Smith lightly chuckled and pressed his cupid bow lips to hers.

"But that means, I have to give up some of my precious bath time," he said breaking off the light kiss. She good-humoredly tapped his shoulder as he tightened his hold around her. They stayed that way, wrapped up in each until he knew that he absolutely had to leave. She helped him gather his things, he returning his books to his pack and pulling out a fresh set of clothing, with soap from the bag. John Smith could see the amusement on her face, he was leaving in enough to have time for his nightly bath, which his fellow Englishmen found highly strange, yet was very common and held as highly hygienic by others in his worldly travels. He loved the way freshwater, soap, and sand for scrubbing felt on his skin; he loved it enough to tell her and found out her people also bathed daily, though they considered it an offering to one of their gods. Pocahontas kissed him a final time and offered,

"One night I just may join you," she sighed to him.

At her words, she, saw desire darken his pale blue eyes that had gone silver in the low light. He pulled her tightly to him for one last set of kisses that trailed from her mouth to the velvet of her earlobe.

She could feel his smile against her ear, "you are welcomed at any time, but I can't promise I will be on my best behavior with you."

She kissed him lightly and pushed him off toward the stream closet to the fort and begrudgingly turned and began her walk toward her village. She didn't know if it was the wind, the flood of energy she felt surrounding her, or if it was the just the mere thought of them touching skin to skin that told her to turn and switch directions. She let the moon be her guide and followed a path toward the river.

Even in the dark night, she could see the drops of water cascade down his broad back in the moonlight. He was submerged, in the middle of the river, to the waist and as he moved she stood amazed by the way his taut muscles shifted underneath smooth pale skin. So, engrossed in his task and the movement of the water around him, he missed her near-silent approach to the water's bank and the fall of the tanned deer hide robe, which she wore to the earth. It wasn't until he turned upon hearing something enter the water that he saw her; the moment would engrain itself into his very bones and be with him until day breath would leave his body.

The shine of the river and moonlight gave an ethereal glow to her copper and amber skin and John Smith watched as the black water moved up her body the deeper she waded and the closer she came to him. Finally, she stood and all that separated them was the night itself. He was afraid to move, to break the living dream or fancy that he had somehow conjured. It was she who broke the one-sided stalemate, her hand lifting from its wade in the river water and lay above his heart, drops of river water embraced the rises and valleys of his chest as they raced down his body on their path to rejoin the river below. This was real, no lonely illusion, and he could no longer deny the chase of need that hummed through his blood at her touch. His arms rose from the water pulling her tight against the hardness of his body and in the darkness, his mouth found hers. That night he surrendered his life and his heart to her.

Time was not on their side; it never had been. The cool water of the river moved between them and offered its own gentle cresses as their hands desperately search and discovered one another. Each caress and kiss lived with the intensity of two souls filling themselves with each other's taste and touch. A pleasured moan broke through the soft noise of moving water, the night had engulfed all sound. Neither knew who made the heated tone, but John Smith halted their fiery kiss and his warm hands stopped the exploration of her body. Their breaths came out quickly as empty lungs pulled at the night air for recompense and yet, their bodies still yearned for more.

"I have to go… the fort… now is not within my power." His head had lowered to the spot where her neck and shoulder met; his deep voice hummed above her and his words tenderly stroked the skin there.

"Let me see you.. touch you… feel you for just a few more moments." She knew her words were desperate and hungry, yet they were everything she felt in that instant. The world she had known, the woman she had known, had been burned to ash and now she stood birthed in the blaze of an ache she never could have conceived. John Smith raised his head and tightened his hold of her, his whispered words mingling with her bated breath.

"I promise you every part of me… Just not tonight, no matter how much I want it to be."

His pale blue eyes, that had gone silver in the moonlight, held hers. Pocahontas knew his words held truth, she could feel them ingrain themselves into her bones and above all, it was her same truth. She knew his reasoning in wanting was to protect her. They were too close to the fort and this area of the river was known by the other white men. If someone from the fort had found them in the midst of their lovemaking or if they ever became aware of them, then the danger they already faced would be tenfold. She knew not even how her father would react if she quickened with child, let alone if she brought forth a child with sky-colored eyes or sun-colored hair. Above all she knew that war was looming, they both did, and no matter how many divides they had crossed, in the smoke and ash of war; they might both lay in ruin. If they intended to survive, if they intended for their love to survive, they had to buoy their love along the longer path of the river of life. He released his hold of her.

"Whatever happens, John Smith, I won't forget this night." A strong wind wafted through the trees, carrying her words as she moved toward the riverbank left. She turned back to face him, her hands clutching her dress, "I'll always be with you... forever."

Pocahontas woke again that night with a start. She sat up straight in the great wooden bed of the ancient cabin. She ran a trembling hand over her face, her words of that remembered night still echoing through her mind. It was the sound of moving water that turned her head to the closed door near the bed. The door was washed in the shadows of windowpanes; John Smith was there, near. War had been abated for a second time, her father was now forever his brother, and he was hers if she would have him. She intended too. Throwing off the thick covers, she moved to the closed door. Tonight, was within their power. Lovers the card had said.

_A forever embrace, desire, the claiming, shadows in harmony._

The wooden door opened lightly, almost without a sound, and it was the gentle creak of the door that alerted the bathing man to her entrance. Pocahontas stood silently at the doorway, watching the steam rise from the heated water. Grabbing the hem of her thin linen shift, Pocahontas casually lifted it above, over, and off her body. She stood there, bare to the moonlight and John Smith's gaze, not unlike their once forbidden meeting at a river in her homeland. Smith's hands gripped the smooth sides of the wooden soaking tub and he rose from the steaming water. Muscles rippled across the plains of his broad chest and down the valley of his flat stomach as he stood. His pale body was crisscrossed by windowpanes, scars, and gleaming water droplets that clung to his form as if they were unwilling to leave him. One scar still lay angry and jagged, along is his right side, it unforgettably linked her to him. Pocahontas' eyes followed the play of water that slid lower until they found the blond curls, which nestled about the base of his thickness. A flood of desire wove throughout her body at the sight of him and she pressed herself forward. Work roughened fingers stroked her shoulders and brought her into the tub, into the water, and to him. She lifted Smith's chin and brushed her lips to his. Their kiss deepened as tongues met, probed, tasted, and pulled them far from the old cabin that surrounded them. They were pulled to a place where nothing mattered but the heat of his body against hers.

John Smith's hungry mouth pressed kisses down the side of her neck until he found the throbbing pulse in the hollow of her throat. Uttering deep whimpers of desire, she caressed the iron-hard muscles of his shoulders and upper arms. His warm wet hands skimmed over her body, caressing, stroking, cradling her, feeding the heated fire that had been ignited within her. He gathered her close to his wet skin, he lifted her and himself over and out of the misting bath. The kiss grew and grew as he pressed her backward until they ran into the edge of a great oak table. Pocahontas' fingers lingered upon the smoothness of the table's edge as their kiss broke and both searched to find air.

"What do you want?" he whispered against the velvet of her ear.

"Tell me," his voice demanded huskily in desire.

"You… all of you," was her breathless reply.

John Smith drew back slightly with a shaky laugh and a smile of pure joy brightened his face. He leaned down and kissed her quick and hard, the pale moon alighting the delight in his blue eyes. Smith's powerful hands slid over her hips, underneath her thighs, and lifted her easily up and onto the smooth table.

"Make love to me… have every part of me," he said breathlessly when he released her again from the kiss.

Pocahontas' wrapped her powerful legs around John Smith's hips and pulled him tight against the most intimate part of her. He submitted to her touch, as she traced her fingers over the landscape of scars that made up his flesh. Her exploration of fingertips continued with lips, teeth, and tongue across Smith's broad chest, to tease first one nipple and then the other to taut rigidity before moving lower to caress his muscled stomach. His taste was so clean and sweet that the act which began as teasing, increased the intensity of her own need. John Smith's damp body grew eager between them and he drew in a shuddering breath. Her hands traced light patterns on his hips until her touch became bolder.

Savoring the bottom of her lip, John Smith was pleasantly startled when her tender hands found him. He groaned heavily as she explored the slick velvety thickness of which she held. She brushed her nails lightly up and over him, slowly she cupped the swelling length of him in the palms of her hands. A deep moan broke their kiss as John Smith threw his head back in desire. A shuddering breath made its way throughout his body and when he opened his eyes to her they were all blue skies, spring skies. Yet, when he leaned toward her the blue deepened and his eyes became nothing as soft as spring.

John Smith kissed her. Gentle at first, then it grew and grew to an overwhelming hunger as he let his body slowly fall against her, laying her flat on the ancient felled oak. She shivered as his heated flesh warmed her where it met her cooled body. Pocahontas's smooth copper brown skin called to him and his hands answered the call. He discovered her inch by sweet inch, tenderly molding her firm breasts, as she gasped at each new caress. Inhaling against her silken skin, he battled to slow the beating of his heart and desperate to maintain his control. Smith deepened their kiss as flames crept up his body. His kisses followed his hands. John Smith's warm wet mouth moved to each of her hardened teased peaks and then rained down Pocahontas's belly to her inner thighs.

The deep burning ache within her flared to an incandescent heat and Pocahontas felt herself grow slick with anticipation. She softly sighed as his fingers traced small, slow circles on her hips, before caressing the damp folds below. She moaned as Smith sought the source of her pleasure and with learned hands, he massaged her sweet desire before gently sliding one finger and then two, deep inside her; preparing the way for what was to come. She opened to him, her muscles easing at his touch and the first flick of his tongue over her flesh. Her fingers twisted in his soft golden hair and she shamelessly drew him tighter between her thighs.

John Smith licked, rolled, and explored her, judging his progress by the pleasured sounds Pocahontas made and how wildly she writhed against him. Hungrily, he watched as her pleasure built and built until her arched body rose from the oak table and her body trembled boneless upon it. As she cried out above him, he swore her body glowed in the darkness. Sparks of colors, reds, blues, and yellow played behind Pocahontas' closed eyes as she lay spent to the ripples of pleasure flowing through her body. Wordlessly, John Smith gathered her still quaking form into the steel of his arms. As he carried her across the expanse of the barren room, pallid moonlight glimmered across the strength of his body and followed him through the room's threshold.

The fire flickered wildly in the room's hearth as if it grew its strength directly from their coupling. John Smith lay her in the warmth and comfort of the great wooden bed. In slow waves of kisses, he made his way down her jawline. Kiss by kiss, he made it to her shoulder, stopping to admire her eyes still closed in pleasure. Pocahontas fought to open her eyes, to not only feel but to see his body raised above her. She felt as he placed a tender kiss above her heart and that profound touch opened her eyes. She swore that she could see the sapphire night sky shining in his eyes. Smith let her set the pace as he poised himself, stiff-armed, above her. Nearly breathless, he bent down and kissed her tenderly as he explored the silky tightness of her womanhood encircling him. He had prepared her well and as he made them of one flesh, her body easily molded to being wedded to his and he lay buried deep within her. His calloused hands lovingly stroked her hips until she felt the deep aching need to move and learn the desires of his body.

Hands grasping, breathes coming in shallow intakes, and hearts pounding together; their bodies danced in the roaring firelight. Fearless in their joining, their bodies wreathed and eagerly greeted each other at every thrust. Pocahontas arched her back and cried out with pleasure as John Smith worked into a steady rhythm. Feeling himself nearing the edge, Smith stubbornly fought his body to keep control. When he looked down at Pocahontas, her dark eyes danced with pleasure and it was her boneless plea of "more" that brought forth another well of craving, power, and passion. Securing his strong arms around her, John Smith pulled her thighs higher and tighter around his waist, as he brought her up and into his lap as they sat upward into a sitting position.

With eyes locked together and bodies entwined, Pocahontas' hips rocked hard over his as his pounding pace grew. Pelvis to pelvis, they ground out their feverish desire. Clutching his shoulders, so tight that she nails left red crescents in his flesh, she neared the brink of pleasure. Her eyes closed to the night as a firestorm overtook her body and he burned in a saccharine inferno. Her warmth tightened, quaked, and danced around John Smith and in the depths of his body, the rush began to build. Locked in a boundless embrace, Smith sought his final moments deep inside her. They shifted again, as he rose on his knees and straightened his back, grasping one of her long legs over his shoulder and the other around his waist. A rumbled moan called out her name as one last hard thrust brought them to flame. Shadows of flower crowns, antlers, and windowpanes swirled alight in the room, dancing in the moonshine and firelight. Like a wave crashing upon the seashore, he was washed in waves of burning bright white light as his body emptied the seed of life deep within her. Exhausted, they lay upon the ancient bed. Too tired to move, his fingertips traced up the soft skin inside of the hollow of her hips. Pocahontas shivered beneath him and moved into his awaiting arms when he rolled beside her. When she could speak, she spoke her heart.

"You claimed me as your queen this night and now… I proclaim you my king, for life, if you will have me." She couldn't hide the happiness in her voice and she refused to try.

It took three tries, but he rolled himself up onto his forearm. John Smith stared deep into her black eyes and caressed tousled hair back from her face.

"I always will." He leaned down and lightly kiss her. John Smith truly meant his words. He would even die for her if need be and he already nearly had. Breaking the kiss Smith laughed.

"You can have me for a thousand years and forever if, you can stand me."

Pocahontas nodded happily and kissed him deeply back.

His words felt like they had held power as if they were a key fitting into the lock of this place. Like his decree had somehow become a link between time and place, like he had repeated these words before, somewhere off on the far edges of a dream or memory. As Pocahontas deepened the kiss, the passion in their bodies caught aflame again and they made love again in the midsummer's night. As the last edges of sleep overtook him and right before consciousness became no more, John Smith thought he heard the high melodic tone of laughter. It was pleased in nature, as if the moon, the flames, and the earth itself were overjoyed at their union. And because sleep had found him, he wondered no more.

At the first rays of dawn, John Smith rose, tended to the hearth's embers, dressed and left Pocahontas' sleeping form. He gathered up the burlap sack that, he had so carelessly thrown to the ground in order to save Pocahontas and then had lain in witness to their lovemaking, and silently walked out the cabin's door. He followed a well-worn path to the tree line and onward toward the bog. Weary of the area and careful of his footing, Smith stopped near the stump of a large tree that had at one point loomed over the watery mix of vegetation and peat. He laid the bag to the ground and pulled out bundles of wheat, flowers, herbs, and a fresh carving of two intertwined figures, one male and the other female. The last item brought a slight smile to his face. One by one, he tossed the items into the bog. They had once been his ancient people's offerings, along with their Stag King, to the bog. Lucky for him the sacrifices of old, that had once given life back to the land, had now become symbolic. He raised his arm to toss the finial item when he heard the crunch of leaves behind him. Lowering his arm, John Smith prepared to defend himself. _Maybe they still did sacrifice their Stag King_. He turned quickly to find no group of priests or a madman for that matter, but the dignified vestige of Duchess Redwyne. _How had she found him?_ _How did she know he would be out here?_ _Why was she here?_ A thousand questions entered his mind and only she could answer them.

He bowed deeply and asked cautiously, "your grace, it's a wonder finding you out here. Are you lost and in need of assistance?"

John Smith did not want to offend her. The duchess was a friend to his love and he also didn't want to cause a rift with any nobility that might support his claim for a contract marriage to Pocahontas, once the King and Queen returned to London.

"No, my boy. I see all has been taken care of in the ancient ways."

She waved her arm outward toward the bog, giving him leave to toss the last item in. The weight of the carving lifted from his hand and caused a large splash in the murky mud and water. It sank quickly as if the bog was actually excitedly receiving his gifts. This left him to briefly ponder how Pocahontas had managed to stay afloat for so long before he found her.

"This land has happily accepted your sacrifices, my dear. I just knew that it would. You look so much like your grandfather," the old duchess smiled and clasped her hands together in joy as she spoke.

John Smith's curiosity got the better of him at her revelation.

"My lady, how did you know that it would? How did you find me? You… you knew my grandfather?" She raised her hand to halt his befuddled questions.

"Child, you are the King Stag, it is customary that you be given these duties. The cabin yonder there for the ritual. After the tree fell, it and its trimmings became the cabin." She tsked at him like he was still a schoolboy learning to tie his points.

_A ritual, what did she mean?_ His face dimmed further to confusion.

"I served the same duties as my Pocahontas to your grandfather. I was the queen to his Stag King, such as you are, and we performed the ancient vocations such as you and she have. Your family has long served as Stag Kings, here at the sacred tree, in Lincolnshire since… oh… well since time immemorial."

He certainly never knew any of this, especially not about his family. They had been farmers for eons yes, not druids or priest of the old ways, hidden Catholics maybe, but not Stag Kings. Yet, what the old woman said could be true, it all could be true, as he reminded himself of his earlier conversation with Pocahontas. John Smith supposed that perhaps he had inherited more than just his grandfather's devilish good looks. The framers here, his family, had needed the land to remain fertile and perhaps they indeed had done more to make sure it remained fertile. Yet, all John Smith knew was that he had been given this honor for serving the king and saving his beloved's people from Radcliff, a second time. Smith had taken a risk in crowning Pocahontas his queen, he hadn't even known she would be at the feast last evening, but he had taken the opportunity when it had presented itself and luckily, he had been blessed again with her favor.

"My lady what do you mean ritual? Is Pocahontas here?" He asked as coyly as possible, he was never one prone to involving himself in palace intrigue, not even to someone who he was sure was an ally.

He admitted what the old women seemed to already know all. Duchess Redwyne reached into her cloak and then the pockets of her gown. The gilded card shimmered in the early morning sun as he reached for it. He studied the card; he didn't have the chance when he had returned the card to the old woman. Two tangled figures clutched one another in passion, one figure golden-haired and the other, the female figure, was black of hair like that of his love. The card had mirrored the carved statue he had tossed moments ago into the bog.

"The fertility ritual between the stags. The cards never lie child. As I explained to Pocahontas at nightfall, the card said that you, the King Stag, and she were to be lovers. And, you and she are now lovers." A bright smile crossed the duchesses' face as she spoke. He stood, stunned into silence.

Duchess Redwyne gathered her skirts and began to leave the wildwood. Suddenly she stopped and turned back to him.

"The land has accepted your sacrifice and you will be blessed for it. Just believe John Smith."

"But your grace… I am not a farmer, in need of a sowed fertile field." Smith faltered. He stood shocked at the card and her declaration.

The wise duchess laughed lightly.

"It shall be a boy to carry on your line John Smith. Life has already taken root in a different type of soil, even now, he grows. His being, and the lasting peace that you can bring, will push the king's favor of the marriage that you seek undoubtedly your way… Her father will have it no other way."

"But how are you sure…"

His words stopped as she halted and held her cards high in her hand. The cards glowed in the sunlight.

"I read it in the cards. And John Smith…Tell her I said to just believe." The duchess disappeared into the forest and the morning mist.

Turning back to the path towards the cabin, John Smith tried to wrap his mind around everything that he had seen, heard, felt, and had been told. The previous evening, he had thanked whatever otherworldly forces had brought them back together. Now, he truly had a clear reason to thank them and even his ancestors for leading their paths back together. They would let the royal progress continue without them, he and she had a rekindled love to discover, shape, and mold before they would venture back to London, together. He planned on showing her the place that he was born and had shaped him into the man that he had become. As he walked in contemplation, he heard a woman's laughter echo through the wood. He knew for certain that it was not the duchess. _She had said to just believe…_

_Prequel/follow-up installment to come shortly. _


End file.
